


Rosethorn’s Well (Of Affection)

by bafflinghaze



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff, Longnight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 12:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18716647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bafflinghaze/pseuds/bafflinghaze
Summary: It’s Longnight, and most of Winding Circle was preparing for the night prayers. But Water dedicates have Rosethorn running their tasks for absurd reasons (no changes there). The last of these tasks, however, brings Rosethorn to Crane’s greenhouses and two particular people.





	Rosethorn’s Well (Of Affection)

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompted](https://bafflinghaze.tumblr.com/post/183666311508/open-for-prompts) by [withrainfull](https://withrainfall.tumblr.com)/[mistrali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali) with “lark/crane/rosethorn gen”

Rosethorn had the itching urge to hang _someone_ up by their toes in her well. It was the only the thought of her plants that would be watered from that well that stayed her hand—though just _barely_.

No, perhaps she could _build_ a deep hole in the ground just for that purpose…

The sunlight was rapidly fading—it was Longnight, after all—and yet the cursed Water dedicates had Rosethorn _running_ around fetching them plants and powders for Mila-knew- _what_. “Can’t you _wait_?” she had snarled at every single one of them. And _oh_ did those dedicates _quivered_ in their blue-touched robes. But yet, somehow, they had insisted and so Rosethorn had, in bad humour, completed their hare-brained tasks.

All too soon, all the fires in Winding Circle would be doused and the whole-night’s-shift of prays would begin. Rosethorn could _feel_ it, the sun, just about to go down, in the winter and evergreen plants around her.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” the Water dedicate cried, hands pressed together. “But please, Dedicate Rosethorn, we urgently require a rose.”

“It’s _out of season!_ ” Rosethorn growled.

The Water dedicate bit her lip. “Perhaps—Dedicate Crane?”

Rosethorn stared at her. “ _What?_ Get it _yourself!_ ”

“Oh, I could never go into Dedicate Crane’s greenhouses!”

The thought that the dedicate feared Crane more than Rosethorn twinged. Perhaps she _should_ hang someone by their toes in her well. It had been much too long—

“Oh, _please_ , Dedicate Rosethorn! You’re our only hope!”

Rosethorn pinched the bridge of her nose. “ _Fine_ ,” she bit out.

Even in the fading twilight, Rosethorn knew the way to Crane’s greenhouses—all those plants, warm and _out of season_.

There was light, and movement, through the fogged glass.

Rosethorn scowled. Clearly, not only had Crane decide to twist the nature of plants, he had also decided to _light_ in Longnight. Any more, and he’d be renouncing his dedicate vows, Rosethorn thought sourly.

She entered the building, not at all quietly. The heat buffeted her immediately. But she didn’t plan to stay long at all, so did not remove her outer robe.

“ _Ah,_ Rosethorn,” came the sound of Crane’s voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Rosethorn stalked towards the sound of his voice. “Some cursed _Water dedicate_ —”

The light was not from flames, but rather glowing _rocks_ , arranged by the dozen around a large square of cloth that looked suspiciously like a picnic blanket and cushions scattered on the outer edge.. The items on _top_ did not dissuade the notion: there were multiple plates of food, and a carafe of drink, and a woven basket.

But no, what surprised Rosethorn the most was the fact that _Crane was sitting on that blanket—_ on the _ground_. What surprised Rosethorn the second most was Lark, who was rising gracefully to her feet straight from her seated position.

“Rosie,” she said warmly, nimbly stepping between stones of light. She leaned down and pressed a kiss on Rosethorn’s cheek.

“Lark,” Rosethorn said. “What is _he_ doing here?”

Crane immediately flushed. He struggled to his feet, more like a waddling duck than a crane. “This is _my_ greenhouse!”

Lark laughed, the sound of it easing Rosethorn. “Oh, Rosie,” she chided. “Play nice. Happy birthday.” She caressed Rosethorn’s arms, and helped Rosethorn take off her warm outer robe.

Rosethorn grimaced. “We celebrated it just six months ago—”

“Well, this is your _real_ birthday,” Crane said with a huff. “I _told_ you she won’t appreciate it!”

Lark clasped Rosethorn’s hand and led her onto the picnic blanket. “Sit,” she said, eyeing both Rosethorn and Crane.

Crane sat back down, muttering. Rosethorn decided to sit down with much more poise.

“What about the prayers?”

“The plants know well that the sun will rise again tomorrow,” Crane muttered.

Rosethorn shot him a look. “ _Why_ are you a Dedicate again?”

Crane glanced at her, and flushed even more.

“Don’t worry,” Lark said, patting Rosethorn on the thigh. She let her hand rest there, warm and close. “We’ll do so, together, _after_ we celebrate your birthday. Especially due to your hard work today!”

Rosethorn stared at Lark, betrayed. “That was—a wild goose chase? A distraction?”

Crane huffed, long arms and fingers sweeping over their surroundings. “Do you think this simply _fell_ out of the sky, ready for you?”

“So that water dedicate _didn’t_ want a rose—”

Crane cleared his throat. He reached into the sleeve of his robes and drew out a deep red rose, complete with its thorns. “Happy birthday, Rosethorn.” With a flutter of fingers, the rose floated over to Rosethorn.

“...You’re not even the _tenth_ person to give me rose thorns,” Rosethorn said, shaking her head. “You’ve lost your _sharp_ mind, Crane.” Nonetheless, she took the rose. It was clearly tricked to bloom in the _winter night_ , but it didn’t know any better, the sweet poor thing.

“I know winter’s always hard on you,” Lark said quietly. “But don’t you feel better here? And with us?”

Rosethorn stared down Crane.

Crane looked away, and then glared right back. “This is a celebration!” he scowled. “Because we’re both _so_ happy that you were born, you prickly woman. But I’m starting to wonder why I ever _liked_ you—” he added darkly.

“I should hang _you_ in my well.”

Crane raised one eyebrow. “I’d like to see you _try_.”

“Rosie. Crane,” Lark said. “You can deal with this tension _after_ we have Rosie’s birthday dinner.”

“ _Heh_.” Rosethorn relaxed—or rather, gave in. “Don’t expect me to do something like this for _your_ birthday, Crane.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Crane drawled. He clapped his hands. “Now, Dedicate Gorse has _truly_ outdone himself when we requested this for you.”

Lark patted Rosethorn’s thigh. “Let me,” she said, preparing a plate for Rosethorn. She grinned. “The least I could do after all your hard work today.”

The food was good, of course. But Rosethorn had to laugh at Crane, prissily eating out of the plate balanced on his lap.

“How did Lark ever convince you to do this?” Rosethorn had to ask, smirking. “I would have thought that you would order your dedicates to drag a full dining table in here.”

From how Crane stiffened and reddened, he had clearly wanted to do so. Rosethorn laughed.

“She convinced me like how she convinces _everyone_ ,” Crane said. “And this is for _you_ , unfortunately.”

Lark caressed Rosethorn’s face. “When you love someone...”

Rosethorn glanced to Crane. Crane’s face had _softened_ , and it felt as though his eyes were caressing Rosethorn’s face too. She wouldn’t put it past Crane to somehow command the wind to do so.

Rosethorn’s heart did _not_ swell up, and her chest did _not_ tighten. “I see,” she said gruffly. “I can’t stop you from making this a habit, can I?”

“No, you can’t,” Crane and Lark said simultaneously.

Rosethorn sighed. It came out more fond than she wanted. “How did you ever get all those Water Dedicates into your plan?”

Lark’s eyes sparkled. “Hmm, how did we, Crane?”

Crane straightened up. “Well,” he drawled, “you see, I am Dedicate Crane, Great Mage—”

Rosethorn snorted, laughing a little, leaning back to hear their tale. The circle of lights was small and cosy, the heat welcoming, the plants soothing (not that she’d ever admit that).

But most of all, the well of affection she felt for Lark and Crane filled her with warmth.

  


  



End file.
